


It's A Good Day To Hide

by oathkeptroxas



Category: Batman (Comics), DC Comics, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Flashbacks, Mentions of past child death, Night Terrors, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:48:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6676612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oathkeptroxas/pseuds/oathkeptroxas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe one day he'll be over it. Maybe one day it'll be just another day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Good Day To Hide

**Author's Note:**

> It's April 27th, the anniversary of Jason Todd's death.   
> Named after the song 'it's a good day to hide' by Pygmy Lush.

He could still remember the heat; the scorching, all encompassing smoke that stung his eyes and throat. The agony that weighed down every limb so that it was tortuous to move, even that wasn't enough to stop him. He recalled with perfect clarity how he'd needed to try harder, the drive that propelled the slow but relentless drag of his broken, weeping body across the concrete. He needed to shield her in time. He knew that it was likely to be too little, too late, but he'd never been someone to go down without a fight. He had limited time remaining, but he'd spend it wrapped around her. He'd just wanted her to love him. 

His hair was thick and matted with blood, he could feel the sticky warmth of it on his temple. He hadn't seen a montage of his life flash before him, the way so many movies and books had suggested he would. He'd thought of regrets, he'd mourned the loss of things he'd yet to do. He wanted to go to school, he wanted to have a future. He wanted to make Bruce proud, to prove that he could be more than the hand that life had dealt him. He remembered being petrified, a suffocating fear as the numbers ticked down. He'd never get to tell Bruce he was sorry. He'd never get to see Alfred again. It just kept counting down. He was fifteen years old and he didn't want to die.

He bolted awake, his throat raw and the room echoed with the remnants of a scream. The sound had carried over from his dream, sounding a little too high with the memory of a frightened little boy. His knuckles were white as he gripped the sheets. He scanned the darkness of the room, his chest heaving. The flashing digits of his bedside clock brought back flickers to assault his mind, haunting images of the way he'd awaited his own demise in the face of similar numbers. He closed his eyes tightly, and a furrow creased his brow. With a few deep, gasping, shaking breaths he unclenched his fists. He stretched a hand across to turn on the lamp, illuminating the space in dim, yellow light, enough to chase the shadows away. He wrestled free of the sheets in an effort to disperse the trapped feeling, the tightening in his chest. 

He stumbled towards the small bathroom, his mind was still bombarded by things he'd much rather forget. He'd lost count of how many times he'd woken up this way - filled with immobilizing terror and the phantom pain of physical wounds that had long since healed, but his psychological ailments wouldn't let him forget. He wondered if those would ever go away. He hunched over the sink, and scrubbed his face with cold water. He patted the nape of his neck to rid himself of the cold sweat he'd woken up in, and let out a heavy sigh that hitched with the beginnings of a repressed sob. He wiped furiously at his eyes, trying to will away the sting of tears he refused to cry. Absently, he pinched the skin in the crook of his elbow, just enough for the sting to register. The pain was gone as quick as it came, nothing but a minuscule but sufficient reminder that he was alive.

He headed to the fire escape. He glanced briefly to his phone on the bedside table. It was quiet, desperate moments such as these, when he regretted burning his bridges. He doubted that anyone would come if he called. He just wished for once in his life that he had someone he could rely on. Everyone he'd ever loved had either died, left him or otherwise let him down. Most days he walked around like he didn't need anyone, when the truth was he couldn't afford to. He snatched his pack of cigarettes from the bedside as he ducked under the window. He sparked up as he leaned against the railing. A swirl of smoke rose up as he breathed out and he slowly felt himself unwind. His eyelids fell shut as he breathed in the mild Gotham air. The open air helped whenever he was faced with harsh memories, it made him feel a little more alive, a little more free.

He saw himself as damaged, the way that a vase decreases in value with every crack and chip. But he was a night sky, with scars of lightning strikes and freckles of constellations, burns and blemishes of swirling clouds. He wasn't without his short-comings, wasn't without his vices, but people never are. 

But how can you be a survivor when you've died already?


End file.
